Pink
by Margot Harwood
Summary: Another angsty drabble from our friend Mr. Darcy's perspective. This takes place after he has returned to London following his epic fail of a first proposal attempt.


He dreams of her. In the beginning they are nightmares—her laughter sharp as he begs at her feet for scraps of affection. Over the weeks, however, the dreams transform into something much worse. She is still laughing, but now it is a musical sound which rings warmly through the halls of Pemberley. Children with her eyes chasing each other through the gardens. Her fingers intertwined with his own. The word _husband_ on her lips.

He wakes barely able to breathe. His heart like a stone in his chest.

The London townhouse is cold. He doesn't remember it being this cold when his father was alive, he doesn't recognize it. The halls seem vacant & enormous, & on occasion he finds himself standing in a hallway completely uncertain of where he intended to go. He doesn't notice Georgina's concerned glances as he shifts his meals around his plate before excusing himself to his study, there he sits in front of the fire for hours, hoping to feel warm again. He ignores Colonel Fitzwilliam's knowing looks. He declines all social invitations.

Most nights he lays awake in his bed, motionless. Paralyzed by the weight of a single phrase. T_he last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry._ The words haunt him. They cut through him as if they are physical blades. How has this happened? How has he fallen so completely under this one woman's spell? Many young ladies had tried to capture his attention. Fortune hunters, well-bred ladies, & even certain lesser members of the royal family had all sought his attentions. He had avoided each of their grasps. What makes this woman from Hertfordshire different? What makes her different & how can he make it stop?

He's not sure he wants to make it stop.

One morning at Netherfield Park he had stumbled upon her in the library, her feet tucked beneath her on her chair as she read, her silk slippers vacant & askew below her. She hadn't heard him enter & he lost all power of speech watching her bathed in the morning light. Without warning he was flooded with images of how much she would love the library at Pemberley, how she would take care to read each & every book housed there over the years. He wanted to make her happy, he wanted it more than anything else in the world & it both terrified & shocked him. When the maid rang the bell for breakfast he had the forethought to step behind the nearest case & remain silent as her delicate footsteps faded into the hall. She had left her book behind on the chair, a single pale pink ribbon marking her place. He stared at it for a long time before slipping the ribbon from between the book's pages & securing it away in his waistcoat pocket.

It was in his pocket when he proposed to her. He had intended to tell her the story of how he had stolen it. How even then, with all his reservations, he loved her. How he took that ribbon & traced his fingers over it, how it became an extension of himself. He wasn't foolish enough to believe she loved him already, but he believed she would come to share his feelings if she knew how completely he was devoted to her. He believed they would laugh about the ribbon & tell their children the story of its theft. How fantastically wrong he had been.

As he rode back to Rosings Park that day the ribbon felt as though it was burning a hole straight through him. He still couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. In the carriage heading back to town a few days later he never took his fingers off it. It felt as if maybe he could still have her, in this small way, as long as the ribbon was with him. Maybe it would be enough.

Once back in London he refuses to neglect his duties. He sees to his accounts, answers letters of business, & makes plans for the upcoming seasons. He fills his days with work, but none of it matters. All the things which had once been great sources of pride feel hollow. He continues on, hoping—praying—that the doing will pull him back to his senses. That it will free him from this thrall. As the days pass into weeks & then months, however, he allows himself to accept what he had been trying so desperately to conceal—this is the best he can expect. He will not recover, not fully.

He will keep up a brave face. He will smile with his sister, even if the smiles never reach his eyes. He will go to the club with Colonel Fitzwilliam & fence & ride his horse through Pemberley's grounds. & he will marry. He knows he will have to, as the only son of the Darcy line there is little choice in the matter. The thought makes him physically ill. Some other woman in Elizabeth's house? Some other woman wearing his mother's ring? Perhaps he would come to accept it. Perhaps there would come a time when thinking of her didn't cause a catch in his breath.

Until then he is determined to push her as far from his mind as he is able. He never says her name aloud. He tells no one of his humiliation. After restless dream-filled nights he rises early to tend to the running of his house & estate. He tries not to imagine her curled in the chair opposite his desk. If he can't forget he will at least conceal.

& if the London servants notice a pink ribbon under his pillow they keep absolutely silent about it.


End file.
